From January to June 18 2012, with a posting on Mom’s birthday, June 19th
Doug Stuber’s 2012 Poems through June 19, 2012:
Over-Trumped
This so-called life, this enigma wrapped in pain,
surrounded by a sea of nuclear waste, this end-game
controlled by those who can profit the most by the
end of, what? The end of humanity? Oil? Seas? Biosphere?
Planet? “We the People” only included white landowners,
while three thousand cultures got cleaned off the map.
Masonic fascism has only worsened, now infecting the
Christian church to the extent that abject poverty spreads,
a wildfire, as stock prices rise, products move, after raw
material shipped thrice to discover the cheapest possible
labor. This shit is not poetic, but you have to scream,
so how to scream on stage, on TV, at the movies in any
way that will register with the already-brainwashed
populace? Millions more will end up criminals, jailed
on this side of the pond, the “already dead” plus refugees
climb toward five million “over there.” As long as about
half as many as needed have jobs, and foreclosures hover
lower than ten thousand per day, we’ll be alright, right?
It’s just too bad, and if you can’t fight to survive and be
in a lucky location, bomb-free, death will trump poverty.
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Blaring heat
returns late, provides
relief to
muscles, brains, love-starved
newly-matched mates, here
in the land
of the morning calm.
Green Gingko leaves, soon
bright yellow
flutter unpredictably
due to fan
shaped leaf outweighing
stems by so
much. Our mates walk in
and out of shade
forty times
on the sunny side
of the street. Gingkos
taste too strong
but medicinal value
is high, so
locals eat them boiled soft or
in soup or
tea. Their shade is a
bonus, fruit is sought
after by
amateurs and pros so the
city grows
them down streets in
communal Gwangju.
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New Navy Base Horrors
Historic flutter
returns as memorial
five eighteen
turns into KPOP,
miniskirt dance festival.
May eighteenth being
the day Chun went nuts
on Gwangju:
democracy not
squelched but assured by
U.S.-backed para-
troopers executing dire
overkill,
inspiring rich
kid pamphlet-drop suicides
at Seoul National,
until, on the most
unlikely
peninsula, they
yielded power to
the masses.
A scant thirty years later
tendencies
toward those ugly times,
dictatorial
edicts, a
supposed presidential
suicide,
concrete rivers, eight
beef protestors dead.
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Witness: monk
aflame, broken bones
mutilated girl,
troops sent in
over and over.
This behavior
is emulated in the
new dash for
ever-decreasing
resources. Modified crops
allow huge
population while
stripping collection
of next year’s
seeds. World disasters
assured via food
wars, global warming, auto
mobiles, self-
righteous billionaires.
When we lost touch with nature
all else crashed:
humanity traded for
big money.
Is there resurgent
loving hippiedom
more than fad,
or are we destined to fight
on behalf
of the same rich men
who enslave labor?
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April 7th Poem, 2012
Our “one-world-government” activist from the 50s has lived to see
the economic equivalent arise from the World Trade Organization,
IMF, GATT I and GATT II treaties, in which trade considerations
outweigh sovereignty. This ideal moment for the profit centers of
the world has, unfortunately, been soured from within, leaving him
to wonder about the fate of the next 20 years, but he still reads hard,
is sharp about human relations, forgiving to absent-minded children,
interested in his grandchildren, wrapping experienced arms around
James three, the one who has international eyes, the ability to walk
into any classroom and excel, who takes the Asian rock game “Go”
or “Padook” as seriously as any chess match or soccer practice. This
and so much more make up the experiences he has to thrive on when
the present slows down. This man, advocate for the freedoms won in
many battles, example to us all about how to squeeze everything out
of each day, threw fundraisers one season, lake frolics the next, and
is thought of each day by more people than he can remember, has not
lost touch with those who matter, and finds those good stories to keep
his brain brilliant, to extend new meaning into each day, to live more
than one life, the way he always did, say 40 years ago. You inspire us
from afar; we’ll be alright thanks to your allowing us to be who we are.
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Blibity Blah, Blibity Blee
Long old perm
adds to the tired look
on her face as she
walks past, then
doubles back to the
most expensive salon in
town: Lee Chul:
Tokyo, Beijing,
and Gwangju? A whopper error
unless Lee’s
mother lives here. It
is parents day, so Moms
hoist money at kids
so they can
buy cheesy flower
baskets best suited for a
county fair
in the deep north of
New York State: Easter tacky.
No one is above
suspicious conversation
so ladies
pair off above the
fray to gossip non-
stop, full-tilt,
smiling, laughing, knowing their
rivals are
across town saying
the same about them.
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Burned laptop
allows a mere hour
so the timing has to be
just right to
Skype to fulfillment.
She blushes, washes,
asks for more,
encourages this
love outlet
that becomes a sex lesson.
She thinks he
has tried all of this
stuff over and over, but
this quiz is
a test of our
fantasies as well.
Dawn comes and
she’s been up for hours
preparing
dinner because her work goes
past seven,
and dinner is at six, but
at least her
hubby is willing
to heat recipes
made from love
in the local way and so
close to his
mother’s, he can no
longer distinguish.
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Coffee Lotte
This white-haired geezer professor eases
into a conversation with a new beauty
who half-steps out of her shoes to get
further across the table at him. The back-line
of her sweater is so deep it reveals bra
and hourglass T over beautiful body,
under 42-year-ol face. He’s pushing 60,
so the match is a typical multi-cultural
generation hopping peculiar to Korea in
the pre-war era (2012). Self conscious
shopper bounces hair, boobs, handbag in
a shirt so tight, C-cups have no chance
but to scream attention. You can dress sexy
and still look peeved when people notice
here too. The real competition is among
women, so if men take a gander, hot-dressed
women, as their training insists, react
with disdain and keep moving. Girls
giggle as the aging couple departs. Quick-
lipped conversations float over coffee, phones.
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Congratulations on Your Marriage
Those lips, that face, her smile, his warmth, this day,
one day, could be the only day, but it matters not, as
one day can last forever, even if in Mun Doek, Haenam,
Naju or Gwangju. Some Tibetan temple cascades upward
on a tree-lined river few see. So? You snap a photo of a
love-God and Goddess in the rowboat position, paying homage
to the love of life by using their bodies to make more of it.
Two eyes yearn to wipe away the tears fomented
by one, two, three, four lost siblings. Can you stand it?
This angel, so calm and at home in such a foreign
land, so welcoming, desirous, smiling: a professor at
the “university of smile,” reaches toward him. He pulls her
in, falling forever in love, yet both trapped in the ill-thought
moments, that, nonetheless, brought them together, permanently
tagged by fate. If ever some cynical scientist needed evidence
of a benevolent Creator, this would be proof enough because
their love persisted electronically, circumventing myriad obstacles,
to become newlyweds, because the wait was so long, complicated,
so full of multicultural differences that love conquered. Can you
please stand and cheer for human compassion and love now?
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It’s Your Duty
The ten days
of spring, over now,
bring dust-rain volley, bow-tie
dances under sad
streets. This slow
city offers chance
encounters. Relationships
in tearless land mean
getting used
to work-hard love,
the kind that
pays off in respect.
Still, countless occupations
Influence beating
Hearts so shut,
Into lead boxes
that us spoiled visitors can’t
find what we know to
be human.
some make the leap, some
Force love on
historical foundations,
meaning they
must connect with those
who know the entire
reasons why
“hard work, no play love” adds up
to good life.
Vanquish excitement,
find love in floor scrub.
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Eat Alone
Hyuntay exhibits
Gonads by
Denying guilt-iced
Request to join a
Family dinner.
Sports rule the
Day: baseball, soccer
Badminton, but no
Meal with the entire Gwangju
Park Kang clan.
Previous errors
By his Dad
already strained the
situation, so
mend-chance is wasted.
Still, ill, cough-
filled grandmother comes
back to do laundry.
This proves she is better than
us, but no
more than that,
as aunt stuck to her promise
and will not
help Hyuntay any
longer: endless spite.
This also
prevents lies from coming true,
thus gaining
Confucian high ground
while misery spreads.
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“Excuse me
are you from New York?
I thought I saw you
there in May
or June.” “No Shanghai
but I visited
Manhattan in June, maybe
you did see me there.”
This is how
the opening lines
are played in
his head, but chess is
simple compared to
size, culture
generation gap.
He’s up, the ruse is
a refill at Foster’s in
Chapel Hill two days
after a
home loss too…
But dude boy
is not about to lose this
one, no; cup
in hand he weaves through
tables, stops, pelvis
eye level
as she peers over laptop.
“Yes,” she says,
“Excuse me, are you
from New York?”
“No, but…”
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Gang Bang
Molly, from upper-middle class London
“joined” a gang due to family arguments and
too much academic pressure at home. She was
forced, emotionally, to seek love, and used sex
with violent gangsters to replace a hug and
soothing parental interface. Instead of “School
Without Walls” (see Rochester, NY) she’s passed
her rite, and this has gone on for decades, but as
soon as she started her own sexual adventures
she was demonized as “sket,” Jamaican slang
for slut. This only differs from fraternizing
and sorority-izing in comfort level, as both groups
excel at manipulation, winner-take-all, libertarian
capitalism, unfettered by law, rules or regulations
while free to beg trillions when their Usury schemes
fail then cripple the blue collar backbone over here
in the land of polarization, as in Ralph Nader, Noam
Chomsky and Michael Moore against O Reilly,
Gingrich and Palin. On paper this is a smear,
but in reality we’re as fucked as Molly ever was.
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Gwangju, Korea,
Hands reach for warmth, life, in these
last hours that he has. No matter that
birds flew, flowers grew, barns collapsed, deer
ran, hopped, fought, lost to lead delivered
so easily. This man, so sad, still reaches to find
any comfort he can find. On the periphery
of his own life, sequestered in a place his own
family doesn’t even know. :How, no why Dad, did
you run so far away from what once mattered?
But here, on the other side of the planet,
long removed from the love that sustained us, so
long that brutal cold sweeps through, loud coughs
pollute bus rides, and my loved one plays back
in my town while I work in hers. Worry not
young man, Dad will always be here for you even
if we’re abandoned in this cultural wasteland,
so adherent to the old ways, but you know me, I
have to, simply have to point out the problems of this
flawed species, my favorite? This forsaken peninsula:
always overtaken, owned, enslaved, occupied.
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Mayan Angelou Prophetic Calendar of Events
Enough concentration camps to hold two million at a time.
Enough new gas lines installed at these converted, deserted
former factories to assure that more than some millions will pass
through, away. Is FEMA worried about an outside attack or
domestic arrests that follow economic collapse? Why waste this
kind of money just to scare us? No, these are for real, with train
boarding platforms, one-way turnstiles, and mass graves and
plastic coffins already in place. Youtube profits beg us to get
out now, while we can. They say the bible will take care of us,
“so just go, don’t worry about money or food.” No matter how
loony they seem, unless you are firmly into the top one percent,
and philosophize to that effect, you may well be on the “list”
to join summer camp, or winter camp: concentration is required
to survive such joints, but history suggests most won’t. Instead
of enacting change after Reagan and Bush I, Clinton just made
matters worse, ditto Obama after Bush II. This is not poetic shit,
but it doesn’t make headlines either. If Jews knew what was coming
don’t you think they’d have left before the SS and Gestapo moved
in? The CIA, FBI and Secret Service have lists. If you KNEW you
were on all three, would you, in 2012, be hanging around the US?
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My love she lives so close to me,
Only a universe away.
We both live lives we love yet hate
But don’t have the nerve to say
Goodbye to the past, hello to the now
No way to shed the tears.
So much to live for, think of the kids
Who get over larger fears.
Why can’t we admit we’ve lost,
Then start life anew?
Why is the chance so hard to take,
Why can’t I marry you?
Because we’ve grown accustomed
To the routine of rotten ways:
Each of them so different,
Trapped now so many days.
So many nights “together”
While really so alone.
All who know detest this
It chills them to the bone.
I ask, I beg, I plea now
Take this gentle hand,
Remind me what it feels like
To be an honest man,
To quit living lies as if noble
To finally take a stand.
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It’s Your Duty
The ten days
of spring, over now,
bring dust-rain volley, bow-tie
dances under sad
streets. This slow
city offers chance
encounters. Relationships
in tearless land mean
getting used
to work-hard love,
the kind that
pays off in respect.
Still, countless occupations
influence beating
hearts to shut,
into lead boxes
that us spoiled visitors can’t
find what we know to
be human.
some make the leap, some
Force love on
historical foundations,
meaning they
must connect with those
who know the entire
reasons why
“hard work, no play love” adds up
to good life.
Vanquish excitement,
find love in floor scrub.
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Labor Day 2012
Today’s troops include cross back suspendered shorts
strutting hard over very high heels with a tight fitting black
cotton shirt barging through the usual suspects: schoolgirl
uniforms, parental friends carrying children, well-suited cell
phone salespeople handing out glossy paper quickly discarded
to the messy square bricks of Shinae, the sexy, color-coordinated
monster friend strolling zone over here in Gwangju. Bobby coifs,
sculpted boys with well-done girls, now a solo lady, a complete
rarity in this duet-driven land. Hard to believe the gay scene
is microscopic with so many mono-sexual walk-mates. Anyone
even two inches off normal is way off here, but the ultimate
eye-opener now appears: shorts, a deep blue shirt and fluorescent
green fake suspenders that are sewn on at the top and clip on to the
bottom of shirt or shorts depending on cup size. Eighty-eight cent
coffee deal awaits on Labor Day (May 1 here) celebrated the same
day Russia does. Russia picked the day due to a series of successful
1889 strikes in the USA. By switching it to September in the US
the real history is lost, but not on Helena, the star professor
who wants to write her way out of Russia now, in order to join
this street club, as a social member, for four months come June.
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Love, Korean Style
Ostracized, this time in a crowd of twenty,
love so gone. How long can anyone live without
love? No, better put, what when one believes
that the only way to prove and sustain love is
via manual labor: hauling trees, cooking, laundry,
chauffeur work: splitting wood, teaching games, pushing
more school, more studying, until the child pops,
while the other’s idea of love is wrapped in empathy,
softness, caring, love-making, nudity, hugs, kisses
and the all-important “Yobo, how was your day at work?”
What happens is he cashes in his entire life to try to
win in what he calls love, including splitting wood until
his elbows ache, left knee succumbs, even moving to
a land he can not fit in to, pleading for his type of love,
while she stays aloof, plays and pots, sad that her son
is in her country, while she is in his…alone, except for
maybe a lady here or there. Yet, he works, three jobs,
works in the land-of-a-million-lies. Oh, he has friends
and she has friends she’s willing to pretend, allowing hugs
while quickly calling to our son, “look, we’re in love.”
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Man in the Shiny Silver Suit
Now blossoms fill the space
otherwise concrete gray.
Students scribble guesses
about why she went away.
Poets lounge on benches
even as it rains.
Frigid March springs nothing
the walls are water-stained.
But these are John Pike masters,
naturally branching out.
Students walk, umbrellas pop
few know what life’s about.
But this is not the place,
nor inside classroom doors.
To introduce the counterpunch
to flowers: fascist horrors.
Instead we “Jack and Jill”
these kids, children at age twenty.
We dare not make them think or
work, their banks will give them plenty.
Heels and skirts, tweed suits, bow ties,
it’s a campus fashion show.
Some afford these easily,
others snort credit card blow.
Judgment comes ten times an hour,
more when class gets out.
It’s all about how well you dress,
and what you lie about.
Ten lies a day is not a sweat
but the truth is a big mistake.
To be a globalized professional,
your heart you must forsake.
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News Poem #246
BC, my old pepper-sauce loving friend suggests
I buy a boat in case this here peninsula blows.
No it won’t, but that’s not the news. The news is
“Extended Detention” for protestors, and “I’m going to
focus on Asia,” which is awesome when one considers
the potential havoc coming in Iran. Here, plum blossoms
do the talking above fake windmills, Koi ponds and
German-style stucco/dark-wood Dutch colonial restaurants,
sunny days, half weddings, half funerals. Personal set
of three appears ready to drop, but must be stopped. You
know the routine: lose love, job and house all at once:
some by pink slip (job moved) or foreclosure (homeless
via fine print) or love torn, leaving children confused and
bitter, “exes” smoldering and emotions displayed for
boss to see. Because of the young children you work
four jobs, both parents unable to parent, then, just as
the tulips rise, new hope with them, some major event
steps in to render efforts futile, tear asunder, return
existence to animal instincts. Few find this thrilling but
2012 lowers the common denominator three more pegs.
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Now the blossoms fill the space
otherwise concrete gray.
Students scribble guesses
about why she went away.
Poets lounge on benches
even as it rains.
Frigid March springs nothing,
the wall are water stained.
But these are John Pike masters
naturally branching out.
Couples walk, umbrellas pop
few know what life’s about.
But this is not the place
nor inside classroom doors,
to introduce the counterpunch
to flowers: fascist horrors.
Instead we “Jack and Jill
these kids, children at age twenty.
We dare not make them think or
work, their banks will give them plenty.
Heels and skirts, tweed suits, bow ties,
it’s a campus fashion show.
Some afford this easily,
or snort on credit card blow.
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Redbuds bloom
some bulbs shoot up in
time to usher in Yobo’s
fiftieth
Korean birthday.
Pottery
and family play
replace the love
of husband and child as she has
Gui Soon now
to make her
house alive, and so
she can paint in Bulgaria.
Her only
reminder of age
is one poor
poem, as her life
is near-perfect with
more time for creative bursts,
less homework.
Can she make
room for all that mess again?
Does she know
how emotional
her son has become?
Will open
arms and open hearts announce
another
chance? We pray for her,
she waits to join us.
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Soul Rumble
This lover, these words
spread onto thin tissue
which passes for a bar napkin
here where jazz flows
only on Friday, unpredictable,
it’s a trip away from pain
inept life, life, so joyous
with family, friends, rockin’
school job, yet unable to
dance with my wife, fill
cavernous soul, having dropped
too many sustaining creative
outlets, but then: music
old friend, joined by three
others soothes enough of the
ache to render energy too:
dance again, punch ol’
Hemingway in the balls.
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Stuber Haiku* Labeled “Dad”
Simple meals
with scrumptious drinks made
up his restaurant
fare. “Pocahontas” was cheese
and bacon
on a split
hotdog, washed down
with root beer.
Vegetables were fries
or fresh onion rings, causing
many smiles,
future diet plans.
Today’s smile, decades
later, is at reunions
short but sweet.
Much water
over many dams
means we pray
daily, move to strong
tomorrows, spurred by writing,
reading; large
ideas continue to
refine thoughts
so you or we might
say the exact right
phrase, sentence,
paragraph that will stick in
brains so full,
hearts so swelled, lives with
little room for more.
*The “Stuber Haiku” has an A,B,A,B, C,C stanza pattern in which the syllables per line are variable in stanzas A and B (but obviously the same in A and B) and the C stanzas are always 3, 7, 3, 5, 5 in syllables-per-line. “A” here is 3,5,5,7,3 and “B” is 3,5,3,5,7. Many of these have been written in the past. The choice of odd numbered syllables is a nod to Japanese Haiku, best written in Japanese, consisting of only three lines in a 5, 7, 5 pattern. Haikus almost always mention nature AND the seasons or a season, or the change of seasons in some way. Some linguists say 7 syllables of Japanese = roughly 12 in English.
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Buddha’s No Rae Bang
cranks up one
more time in late May
to celebrate his
true birthday.
Lumbini swells as
Koreans rock out on a
lotus-filled
stage high above the
Najuho Valley. One cute
seventeen-year-old,
Park Jin Hye
steals the show with a
song and dance routine
to die for.
Then, in a shocker,
esteemed visitors and the
seunim join
in minstrel making
merriment. Wouldn’t it be
nice if we
could see the creator smile,
but here on
a hot-dry Monday
we laugh together
each one of
us a god, able to solve
all earth’s
problems with what we
have. Peace now Peace now.
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Kiri pays
on the sly with her
usual smile, on
the way out
of Yeosu. Christian
opts for an early
leave, as expo exhaustion
sets in. We drank his
wine, and Heineken
until four,
woke up at six to
shower with Rebe
first to leave,
presentations at
Yonsei beckoning.
Minor food discrepancy
clears up when Kwang Mi
cooks ribs at
midnight, adding to
long night of
merriment. Red wines form France,
Chile, Spain
and California
assure quick thinking
to catch the
nuances, as thrice-flashed breasts
fill drunk dreams
and hot summer air
streams in to wake us.
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Decade dream remains
unfulfilled, but she
can still talk about
it. Lunch and
coffee reawaken it.
Then she disappears
this time for
good, scaring the life out of
you . If you
never see her, what
will it mean? Dead dream,
dead woman, dead heart?
Sleep deprivation
reaches the
three-week point but semester’s
end approaches and
all you can
think about is how she’s
thrown away
potential just to
abide Dad’s
demands, Mom’s urgent requests
stuck in a
study room trying
to pass one more time.
Oh quit girl!
Chime in, tell him you’re alright;
force out to
the light that awaits
right in front of you.
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O’ 1
Moon beam bounces back
through deck slots next to
palatial
garden hidden in
the heart of Jeonju.
Curved pines rise
over crooked-branched
maple as
workers scurry to wrap up
another food day.
Diners linger long
after the kitchen
closes, as
this sanctuary
is genuine, calm,
respectful
of others, mindful
that this short
life deserves moments that shine.
Beauty surpasses
The anger
grind as oversized, puffy
bread arrives
by imaculate
delivery: a
waiter straight
form the L.A. scene, but
not, just well
trained. O’s, the hipster
joint hangs your work.
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In The Groove
Polaroid, the jazz
band brushes
its first number as
a trio
before maestro sax
steps in to liven
the night in often sleepy
Gwangju, the
City of Light. Close
your eyes and the basssit sounds
natural, with no
chart, and when
summertime bee bops
he cooks. The
Maitre D’ is both
helpful and a touch
suspicious. But by God he’s
given jazz
a place, so our souls’ relax,
find conifers to pull in,
and dreams to
chase over cocktails and smiles
when most joints
only offer smug
teenagers dancing
and asking
how old you are, and ending
the night with
“thanks for the dance sir.”
Is that in the groove?
><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Good Luck!
Best dressed and
sluttiest
hit simultaneously
on exam
day. One class fails
the averages
ninety-six.
Few are ready for
the dance. Another
leap awaits
those lucky enough
to score jobs.
Hard to forget money when
still living
at home means having
to rent motel rooms
to be with
your loved one, or at
least partner. Since the
miracle
on the Han
took only fifty years to
propel per
annum income from
one hundred to an
astounding
thirty thousand, one suspects
an equal
drop could happen much
quicker. Depression
is creeping in now.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
O’s 2
Min Hee puts a prime
tiny movement at
station one
that sports water and syrup and
a spotlight. Her eye
surpasses
the Ray Brown solo
in bass register
that floats in
and out of perfect
weather that adds to
immaculate space
designed and
executed subtly
soothing without a
hint of self
applause, a refuge
in the valley that
once housed the
Chosun Dynasty.
Again some
grace of the creator sent
this chance while
the normal drift had
led to dance stardom
among the
slowly initiated,
horrified,
shy, hard-to-describe-
to-outsiders crowd.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Does one blushing smile,
innocent in its attempt
to say hello and
good-bye at
once qualify as
poetry?
Or must there be some
Philosophical
Underpinning that
Jumps to the fore? Peace
Means adult red face
as an opportunity
to blossom, and a
restaurant
where time is itself
worth noting
on this bloody earth,
starved, parched, war-torn tears
flowing, cruelty-
filled type of planet.
So if you’re
munching on plastic chairs at
some seven
eleven, able
to watch life flow by
for an hour,
imagine just how good you
have it, when
in front of backdrop
that’s not so easy.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Yang Overload
Bamboo surrounds the
hill Jin Hee
studies on. Inside
two abstracts
find a home, the Yin
Yang one for her, dominant
Yang rooster
for Tae Kyung, the fake
red haired soft-face from Seoul.
They plan to
conquer the world by
constructing
personalities
that can win
in the big male money
club; the corporate, legal
bank account
world that assures their
children will attend foreign
rich high schools.
What about
love? The artist asks, but she
is shy to
admit her boyfriend
won’t penetrate her
dreams. She fears
accepting his kindness will
throw off her
hard fight to be Seoul’s
top dragon lady.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Tae Kyung appears to
be ready
for the rooster now
headed her way. You can feel
the yearning
steaming up from her
loins as you sit with
Jin Hee, now
a mutual friend.
There’s just as good a
chance Tae Kyung will stay
in touch, as
she is less driven,
more conventional, already
settled in.
She’s much harder to
read though, so you’d be
wise to book
a few more meetings
to catch up to her
dreams as well
because there’s this one life, and
it’s half done,
but she’s just begun
to realize the
universe will
take care of her no matter
what she does.
To assist or take
advantage of it?
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Jeonju to Gwangju Bus
One yawn on the back
row initiates
beautiful
trip that reminds you
your young wife
will be back
on Friday. A hair
toss lands on right elbow as
she adjusts short skirt
underneath leather knock off.
Skirts are meant for show
while moving, not to
be looked at
while seated; exposed
blue panties
which, in this
case, match fingernails
and the prettiest face this
side of Meudungsan.
She will not think of using
her left arm
rest, as it is your right one,
even though
you know she “works” in
Gwangju, how dare
You ask what
Her job is on a bus?
Kwang Suk would
Laugh, or punch your arm
Depending on mood.
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Doug Stuber’s 2012 Poems through June 19, 2012:
Over-Trumped
This so-called life, this enigma wrapped in pain,
surrounded by a sea of nuclear waste, this end-game
controlled by those who can profit the most by the
end of, what? The end of humanity? Oil? Seas? Biosphere?
Planet? “We the People” only included white landowners,
while three thousand cultures got cleaned off the map.
Masonic fascism has only worsened, now infecting the
Christian church to the extent that abject poverty spreads,
a wildfire, as stock prices rise, products move, after raw
material shipped thrice to discover the cheapest possible
labor. This shit is not poetic, but you have to scream,
so how to scream on stage, on TV, at the movies in any
way that will register with the already-brainwashed
populace? Millions more will end up criminals, jailed
on this side of the pond, the “already dead” plus refugees
climb…
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